


Mistakes

by She_Who_Only_Knows_War



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Implied Murder, Implied Torture, Kidnapping, Not A Happy Ending, Tags May Change, probably unrealistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 13:27:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4061707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/She_Who_Only_Knows_War/pseuds/She_Who_Only_Knows_War
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy turns an outing into a man hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> I might continue this, but it stays a one shot for now.  
> In any case, this is loosely based on a dream I had. Weird...

"Oh my god! Where's my dress?" I ask, searching the closets. It was black, not too long, not too tight, and not too girly.  
And I'd lost it.  
The others shrug and tell me they've no clue.  
"Come on girls!" Yells my uncle. He's pretty well on his last nerve with us.  
I slip on the next best thing and everybody heads out the door.  
"Amy," My mom asks, "what about your dress?"  
"Lost it," I say. Mom frowns but turns back around in her seat to chatter with her new boyfriend.  
Ugh.  
All the girls are younger than me. I miss Harley.  
When we pull up to the place, it's a large and luxurious mansion.  
"So pretty," Whispers one girl, Megan, as we pass by animal topiaries, red, blue, and white flowers planted into a manicured yard.  
The inside is amazing. Large marble pillars, tile floors with all sorts of designs. There's a band playing on a stage they've set up. Some sweet symphony.  
This place is great.  
And crowded.  
I hate to admit it, but people in large numbers make me claustrophobic. I like people. I love people watching. But in a place like this, there's too many.  
So I step out the front instead of the back, it has less people.  
There's a man crying on the yard across the street.  
I, out of pure curiosity, slip down the long sidewalk and down the street. To my left is the man. To my right and a little further down, is a yard with a man working in it.  
The street, strangely, becomes crowded with more people curious about the man. "Are you making tombstones?" I try to ask the cheerful man over the din.  
"Did you say, 'do you make tombstones'?" Asks a man beside me. He's got an Australian accent, blonde hair and a medium build. "I dunno." One of his big fingers tap me on the nose. "But we can sure try!"  
I'm peeved that I couldn't even get a word in. I'll never know what this guy is doing so I go back to the crying man.  
"Are you okay, Sir?"  
He keeps his dark hands over his face. "I just lost my son today."  
His accent makes me think he's Mexican. "I'm sorry," I say. "I know what it's like to have to bury someone." I feel an arm linking casually with mine. I guess somebody has come to draw me back to the party. As I'm being lead away, I touch his shoulder. "Condolences."  
My night is pretty well shot, I can't just go and be merry after hearing somebody has just died.  
It feels too much like I'm forgetting them.  
That they didn't really mean anything at all to me.  
The street we're walking down is getting darker instead of lighter. There's a house on a sloping hill I'm being led to.  
This isn't going to happen. I look up, shocked to see the Aussie. "What are you doing?"  
"You said you wanted to be buried, right?"  
Umm. "No. I don't. I never said that."  
He shrugs. "Oh well."  
Hobbling and swearing, I pull off my heel (I always pick the big ones) and thrust it into him. I don't actually want to hurt him. But I don't want to die.  
He's stunned, lets me go. I take that opportunity to take my other heel off and bolt.  
I don't know where I go, whether towards the mansion with the gleaming lights or away.  
I do stop to breathe in a pavilion.  
I'm tired so I sit. There's no one to see me, so I pull my knees up and try to think about how the hell I'm going to get back to my family.  
"There's a car. Get into it." I turn and there's a young man, about my age, with a knife.  
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, is the old adage, right?  
He's tan with carefully styled blond hair.  
"What if I don't?" Even though I whisper, it bounces off the pavilion. He can't not hear it.  
He grins. It makes my skin crawl. "Then I'll stab you and make you get into the car."  
I pick up my things, toy with the idea of attacking him with my heels. "Don't you dare," He says, gesturing to the car with the knife.  
I'm slow to get in. There's a man in the driver's seat, a woman in the passenger's. Both of them are brunettes, watching me from the rearview mirrors.  
The blond slams the door on my side, slips in through the door on the right. "We're good."  
I try to hold it together as the car pulls out. We drive by the mansion and he grips my wrist as I plaster myself to the window.  
I don't know why I didn't try anything.  
I'm too scared to think. So I do what I always do to calm myself down, I pull out my phone. "What the fuck?" Asks the guy. "Are you stupid?"  
"Can I please just tell them where you picked me up from and say goodbye?" Everyone is blowing up my little device and I feel bad that I'm on my way to death without them knowing.  
He shrugs. "Fine. But nothing else."  
This sort of surprises me. What captor would risk this?  
He looks over my shoulder as I prepare a mass text. What should I say? I settle with, "I was picked up on Dove Avenue and 8th Street. I love you." Maybe it'll help them find me. A starting place, at least.  
"Anything else?" He asks.  
I shake my head. He holds out his hand. "Then give."  
I do. "Please don't break it," I ask. "My family will want it back when I'm dead."  
The man in the driver's seat looks at me strangely. "Why?"  
I take a deep breath, try not to cry. "Because it matters to them."  
They don't break it. But I scream and try to get it back when they pull up to a trashcan and the blond throws it in the bin. I don't care about my communications being gone. Pictures of Harley were on that phone. The very last thing I had of my older brother.  
"You know what's funny?" Asks the blond. "Usually, girls only scream like that when they're being buried alive."  
I sit with my head in my hands, praying my family will find my phone. "And how would you know that?"  
"Because it's a fun little pass time."  
I stare at him. And he grins at me.  
Oh God. I can feel myself breaking down. I didn't want to die this way. "That isn't funny."  
"If you do it enough, it starts to be."


End file.
